Burns Song Trilogy III: Secondhand Burns
by Lambent Flame
Summary: Smithers and Burns are married and are just hitting a stable stride when political intrigue and a revelation from Larry Burns upend their lives. This story follows their married life and their newfound hobby of shark-jumping. Warning: may or may not contain actual sharks. This is the third installment of the Burns Song Trilogy, following When I'm 104 and A Smithers Named Desire.
1. Chapter 1

**Secondhand Burns**

 **SUMMARY:** Smithers and Burns are married and just hitting a stable stride when a revelation from Larry Burns upends their lives. This story follows their married life and their newfound hobby of shark-jumping. Warning: may or may not contain actual sharks.

 **AUTHOR NOTE:** This is the sequel (eh... three-quel?) uh, anyway, the third installment of my Burns Song Trilogy. The first story is A Smithers Named Desire, about how they get together, the second is When I'm 104, about their first few months of marriage, and now is Secondhand Burns, which is about their married life and their newfound hobby of shark-jumping. Some loose ends are tied up, while a number of others unravel, only to be later tied up again, presumably by some expert knot-tyer in a knot-tying contest.

 **Recap:**

In case you haven't read the previous stories in awhile, here's what you need to remember: Burns just lost his fortune, giving it up to save Smithers, having learned what it is to truly love someone blah blah blah. After gaining popularity at an anti-Barlow rally (and with Barlow hauled away for his involvement in Smithers' kidnapping, the Republicans lack a gubernatorial candidate), Smithers has decided to run for governor. Also, in the end of the first part, when caught in flagrante delicto in Burns' office, Burns at first went along with people's assumptions that Smithers was assaulting him until he revealed in court that Smithers was completely innocent and that he was in love with Smithers. I think that's all you really need to remember.

* * *

Chapter One

Smithers turned his key as slowly and quietly in the lock to his apartment door as he could in an effort to avoid disturbing Burns' sleep. He turned the knob and stepped inside, setting his briefcase on the floor.

"What the devil took you so long?" Burns said, staring him down from his burgundy easy chair, snifter of brandy cradled between his spindly fingers.

"Monty, you're still up?" He hung his jacket on the coat hook by the door and approached, undoing his bow tie as he walked. "It's two in the morning!"

"I am aware of the time. It's not as though I have anywhere I need to be early in the morning," he said, turning away and sighing to the floor. Looking up and fixing his gaze determinedly on Smithers, he said, "Now answer me."

"I'm sorry," he said, sitting in the blue floral settee facing Burns' easy chair and taking his hand. "Quimby is running me ragged at the plant. These sixteen-hour days are killing me."

"You never complained when I made you work sixteen-hour shifts."

"That's because I enjoyed working for you." He patted the seat beside him, and Burns set down his liquor on the glass coffee table and sat beside him, slumping slightly against his shoulder as his body begged for sleep.

"If you don't like it, then tell him you won't work such long hours. Or get a job elsewhere."

"I'm making good money, though. It's overtime pay – I can't walk away from the opportunity to make hundreds of dollars in a single night." He pulled a few hundred dollar bills and fanned them in his hand, waving them so they grazed Burns' nose. He put his arm around Burns' shoulders and stuffed the money into the tie of his robe.

"I don't see why you should spend so much time away from me just to make a paltry five hundred dollars."

"But it's not a paltry amount. Not anymore..."

He grimaced and grabbed the money out of his robe and shoved the fistful of it forcefully into Smithers' hand. "Keep it."

Smithers' snorted in a nervous, bewildered laughter. "What?"

"You're the one who earned it, not I."

"Honey, what's mine is yours."

"Between your gubernatorial campaign and your lawsuit and all this overtime you've been doing, I hardly see you anymore. You pay me to loaf around here by my lonesome while you do another man's bidding all day. There is no honor in obtaining wealth that way."

"But there's honor in being wealthy by cheating your taxes and cutting corners on environmental safety."

"Now you're making sense."

"What do you want me to do?" he said, asking genuinely and without a hint of frustration. "Hm?" He stroked Burns' chin with an index finger. "Just tell me, and I'll do it."

"I want you to spend more time with me."

"Are you sure you'll be okay with me making less money?"

"Smithers, we're poor. A few grand a year won't change that."

"If that's what you really want." He ran his hand up and down Burns' shoulder and upper arm. "You know it's what I want."

Burns brought an arm around Smithers' waist. "It's what I want," he said, then his head dropped against Smithers' chest and he began to snore. Smithers pulled a blanket over them and within minutes fell asleep.

Smithers awoke to his cell phone alarm, a digitized rendition of the tune to Good Morning Baltimore. When Smithers' eyelids finally mustered the resolve to stay apart for longer than a few seconds, he looked down at Burns' head, unmoving except for the slight rise and fall of Smithers' breaths, Burns' own breaths too slow and slight to draw the eye. Smithers put the palm of his hand on Burns' cheek, causing his lips to tighten momentarily and then slacken as he retreated into a deeper sleep. Smithers ran his fingers along Burns' cheek and neck, staring at Burns' open mouth, his tongue gradually lolling out as he snored. After fifteen minutes had passed and he really had to start getting ready for work, he drew in close and kissed him in an intimate yet not libidinous fashion, kissing him as a way to gently induct him to the new day dawning. "Good morning, Monty," he said once Burns' wide open eyes conveyed that he was awake.

As Smithers began to rise from the settee, the blanket billowing away from him and collapsing onto Burns' lap, he put his hand on Smithers' thigh. "Wait – Waylon, sit down." Smithers immediately did as he said. "Stay with me today."

Giving a pained chuckle, he said, "I can't do that."

"Tell him you're sick."

"I've already called in sick twice this month to be with you. I told you, I'm going to cut back on my hours. I promise we'll do something special together this weekend."

"What do you suggest?"

"Whatever you want." He patted Burns' shoulder as he stood and headed for their room where he gathered clothes from the dresser drawers and slung a towel over his shoulder. "Are you ready for your shower, dear?"

"Yes." They walked onto the gold-flecked pearly tiles of their spacious, elegant bathroom, and through the mirror, Smithers looked at Burns standing close behind him. Burns touched his elbow. "Let's have lunch together."

"It's a date." Smithers hung their new clothes on the hangers perched on the garment rack and turned the shower dial clockwise for hot water and disrobed. "Damn it!"

"What is it?"

"I can't have lunch with you today. I'm having lunch with my lawyer to discuss my case against Kent Brockman and Channel 6."

"Well, where are you meeting? I'll meet you there."

"The Pimento Grove. I'll come pick you up. Be ready by eleven." He removed Burns' robe and hung it on the rack. "But it won't be very romantic with the lawyer there." He set one foot inside the shower, testing the temperature.

"Bah. I've never been one for such gooey gestures. I've only made them to entice you since I know you love that malarkey."

"I do." He brought his other foot into the shower and guided Burns inside. As the water wetted Burns' hair, Smithers rubbed shampoo into it, lathered it up, then mixed it into his own hair. He scrubbed Burns' skin with a loofah, making sure to get behind his ears. Once they had washed, he helped Burns out and wrapped a towel around them, patting their skin dry and then hugging him and kissing his cheek. "Feel better now?"

"Yes." He sighed.

"No, you don't." He took Burns' chin in his hand and tilted his head up. "Tell me what's wrong and how I can make you feel better."

"Do you know how much Quimby bought the plant for?"

"No," said Smithers, shaking his head. "You never told me."

"Two million dollars." Smithers' face fell in empathy as a tear ran from Burns' eye. "I had no choice..."

"You did have a choice, and you chose me." He hugged Burns, who was now beginning to cry. "We'll get you your plant back. No matter what it takes." He rubbed the towel around Burns' hair, drying him secondary to soothing him.

"Spare me your quixotic promises. My fortune is gone! Really gone..." He backed against the wall and slid to the floor, curling into a ball but reaching his arm out shakily for Smithers. "All gone..."

Smithers knelt beside him and wrapped the towel around him before hugging him. "We'll get it back. You're so enterprising; I believe in you." He kissed Burns' forehead. "You're an amazing person. You know that, right? You've accomplished so much in your life, and I see no reason you can't keep accomplishing everything your heart desires."

"You're right. I can claw my way back up to the top. The only question is...how will I do it?"

"That's the spirit!" He rubbed his own hair with the towel before giving it back to Burns and dressing himself. "I know you'll think of some brilliant scheme. And when you have it, I'll do everything I can to help put your plan into action." He helped Burns stand and dressed him back into his robe. He went into the kitchen and started a pot of water boiling and some eggs and bacon frying. Once the water began to boil, he divided two cups' worth into a couple of mugs with bags of darjeeling and green tea and poured oatmeal into the water remaining in the pot.

Burns slinked unobtrusively into a chair at their cozy kitchen table, as meek as any man dethroned so unceremoniously as he had been. "I am so accustomed to being at your side all day. I don't know what to do with myself lately."

"I'm sorry I've spent so much time away from you," he said, plating a couple of eggs and strips of bacon. "I've only worked so much because I thought the extra money would make you happy."

"It does," he said. "But so do you."

He set the plate before Burns and went back to cooking his own eggs and bacon. "You can spend the day scheming a way to get your fortune back. I know how much you love scheming."

"I do."

"I'll lay out your suit for you to wear to lunch when I'm done here. How is your breakfast?"

"The yolks are too dry and powdery."

"Here, have mine," he said, swapping the new eggs with the old ones on Burns' plate with the spatula. Smithers watched as he took a bite. "Is that better?"

"Yes."

"Good." As the bacon continued to cook, Smithers pulled out a chair at the table and ate the overcooked eggs. "So, do you want to do anything for Halloween this year?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know...go to a party?"

"So you want to go to a party, eh?"

"If that's what you want."

"It's obvious that's what you're angling for." He pushed aside his eggs and took a strip of bacon in his mouth. Smithers poured the oatmeal into a bowl and sprinkled it with brown sugar and cinnamon and tended to his bacon. "Ugh. It's cold," he said, pushing aside his plate of bacon and dipping his spoon into his oatmeal.

"This fresh batch will be ready any minute, dear."

"Do you have a particular party in mind?"

"Well, usually I get together with a few of my friends."

"Very well."

"Have you given any thought to what you'd want to wear as a costume?"

"Something scary this year. Like a taxman."

"I'm sure we can arrange that."

"What about you?"

"Oh, I don't know...maybe a vampire."

"We can't both go as taxmen."

"I'll think of something." He transferred the bacon from the pan to Burns' plate. "Careful, it's burning hot." He spooned oatmeal into a bowl for himself, then sat down and took the plate of cold bacon and bit a piece. "Why couldn't we? Matching costumes would be cute."

"I'm going for scary like Nosferatu, not cute like Hello Kitty."

"Then I'll come up with something scary." He glanced at his cell phone, reviewing his e-mail. "Shit. Quimby wants me there an hour early. I must have had my notifications disabled." He took a brief sip from his tea and kissed Burns' cheek. "I'll see you at eleven," he said, running to the door.

"I'll see you –" Smithers had already grabbed his briefcase and shut the door, already was descending the stairs, "–then."


	2. Chapter 2

**Secondhand Burns**

 **Chapter Two**

"Sir, are you sure there's nothing more important I could be doing? Perhaps something more pleasant, like tax evasion?"

"No. I need you to keep an eye on these broads while I'm out so they don't swipe my possessions I, er, embezzled so hard to acquire."

"But why do you need _me_ to do this?"

"Because you're the only man on my staff who's impervious to their, er, charms."

"I suppose that makes sense. But do they _have_ to be in thongs and string bikinis? We're in Mr. Burns' office, for God's sake! I mean – your office, sir."

"I need them in uniform and ready for action for when I return. Now, do me proud." He left and shut the door, then opened it and peered back inside the office. "And I, er, don't mean literally do me," he said, then shut the door again.

"Well, duh," said Smithers, teeth grit slightly yet tensely.

A woman with long, blonde, wavy, styled hair, large busted and tanned who looked maybe nineteen years of age, sidled up against him and stroked his chest. "If you let me borrow the mayor's keys, I'll make it worth your while."

Smithers gently pushed her back with an index finger pointed to her chest. "I don't think my husband would appreciate that."

Her cheeks went red as she backed away.

Smithers parked his car in the lot for their luxury apartment at precisely eleven o'clock. When he opened the door, he saw Burns sitting on the couch in his navy blue suit with a wet splotch on the pant leg, his black tie knotted loosely about the collar and his shirt halfway untucked. Burns forced a smile, trying to look as though all was well. "What happened?" he asked, noting a powerful fragrance as he approached.

"I had a little mishap with the cologne."

He rushed to Burns' side and led him to their bedroom. "Here, let's get you into some other pants."

"I can dress myself, Waylon. See?" he said, gesturing to his outfit.

"I know you can. But I want to help you," he said, pulling a pair of navy blue pants out of the drawer. "Put these on," he said, already removing the stained pants. As Burns pulled the pants up, Smithers tucked his shirt inside and zipped him up, then straightened his tie.

"I'm afraid I spilled the last of that cologne you like."

"You don't need any cologne. You smell alluring enough as is. Now, let's go," he said, placing his hands on Burns' shoulders and leading him out to their limousine. Burns rode in the back as had been their custom, and Smithers was all too happy to let him sit in back where he'd stand a better chance of surviving a crash. Besides, it harkened back to the days when he was of the highest station of society and Smithers was able to cosset him to the extent his heart desired. When Smithers drove him around in their limousine, it was as if nothing had changed and they still led the recklessly sumptuous lifestyle they had once led.

"Smithers, party of three."

They led them to their table.

"You have an airtight case for defamation," said the blue-haired lawyer, opening a briefcase and taking out some papers. "Kent Brockman made comments on-air declaring you guilty before your trial, and there is clear evidence that this hurt you financially in addition to damaging your reputation in the community. By failing to issue a retraction, Channel 6 shares culpability. That's why when I called Brockman's lawyers today, they immediately wanted to settle."

"For how much?" asked Burns.

"One million dollars."

Smithers sneered. "Tell them they can stuff it. That's an insult, not a settlement. They know they're going to lose and will have to pay a cold ten million when this goes to court." He bit off a piece of a breadstick. "Besides, the publicity about my defamation suit will help remind people of my innocence. They didn't report on the outcome of the trial nearly as much as they did on my presumed guilt beforehand. I can tell walking around town that some still haven't gotten the memo." Burns took Smithers' left hand in his right and squeezed, giving a troubled glance. Smithers smiled slightly and intertwined their fingers.

"Great, then I'll tell them we'll see them in court."

"See, Monty, you'll be a millionaire again."

Burns squeezed Smithers' hand harshly. "I don't want to be wealthy that way. I still have my dignity."

"There's nothing wrong with relying on your spouse for some things. I've relied on you for financial support for decades."

"Yes, but I relied on you for physical support. Now I rely on you for everything."

He put his hand on Burns' knee. "I know this is difficult for you. But if you want to feel useful, why don't you...do some dusting when you get home? I haven't gotten around to it in weeks with my busy schedule."

"I'll thank you not to patronize me."

"I'm sorry. But you know, as much as you need me, I need you."

"All I do these days is sit around, drinking, watching cartoons, sleeping..."

"Why don't you do something out in the community? That might give you an idea of how to make your fortune back so you won't have to rely on me to be a millionaire anymore. Marge Simpson is teaching an art class at the adult education center. Why don't you do something like that?"

"An art class? That's how I'm supposed to contribute to the household?"

"I took her class last year, and I learned a lot. Remember that painting I did of you on your yacht last spring? The one I didn't show you until we were engaged."

Burns blushed, remembering the nude painting of himself lying seductively on a couch on his yacht Gone Fission...the yacht he used to own. "I'm not going to paint anything like _that_ of you!"

"Why not? Marge painted you in the nude."

"I don't want anyone else to see you like that."

"Springfield's art community has seen you like that."

"I was no one else's to claim, then. You, however, are mine and mine alone, and I say no one will see you like that."

"You wouldn't have to show anyone else. Just like I never showed my painting of you to anyone else."

The blue-haired lawyer's phone rang. "Hello? ... Mm-hm ... I see... Very interesting. ... They're here now. I'll tell them. You keep working on those negotiations. I'll be back in about an hour." He ended the call. "Mr. Burns, why didn't you tell us you filed a quitclaim deed with the county clerk?"

"I did what?"

"You added Mr. Smithers to the title of your mansion in July. Legally, he had fifty percent ownership of the mansion."

Smithers turned to Burns. "You never told me you added me to the deed."

"Do you know what this means? Your sale was illegal. The mansion is yours."

Burns' eyes lit up with childlike glee, and Smithers' eyes watered in response. They hugged each other in a fit of mirth. Burns sighed heavily, prompting Smithers to back up and ask, "What's wrong?"

"All the furniture, the grand displays of my legacy...that's still gone. I'll never get them back."

"With the money we get from my lawsuit, we'll furnish it so extravagantly it'll rival the old set-up." He pulled him in for another hug. "I'll have you living like a king again in no time." He released Burns from the hug and turned to the lawyer. "So when can we move back in?"

"Any time."

"I'll call the movers, and we'll have you back home by tomorrow," he said, dialing in his phone. "Then on my way back to the office, I'll stop by the post office and have them forward our mail – hi! Listen, sorry it's such short notice, but we need our stuff moved ASAP. ... Today, if possible. ... Mm-hm. It's from Apartment 1901 at the Cherry Grove Apartments to Burns Manor at 1000 Mammon Avenue. We'll of course pay you well for coming on such short notice. ... Two thousand? I think we can swing that. ... Great! Monty will meet you there at one. Goodbye." He hung up the phone. "Well, they're coming today. You'll be back home before nightfall."

"I'm going home..."

When the waiter arrived, Smithers ordered a bottle of champagne to celebrate.

Smithers stopped their limousine outside the apartment, the motor still running as he opened the door for Burns. "I'll be back late tonight – 1 a.m. – so don't wait up for me." He handed the styrofoam tray of leftovers to him. "You can heat this up for dinner. The movers should be here any minute now." He kissed his cheek. "Love you," he said, shutting the door and jumping back into the driver's seat and taking off.

That night, closer to two in the morning than one, Smithers pulled into the gate and parked in front of the entrance to their mansion. He turned the key in the lock, then upon entering, dropped his briefcase and took off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. As he undid his bow tie, he walked through the empty halls on the way to their bedroom, but as he walked, a light from an open room caught his eye. He walked inside to investigate and saw Burns sitting by the fire in his antique chair they had kept from before – the chair he'd been sitting in the first night he and Smithers had first indulged their passions.

"Monty, I told you not to wait for me," he said, approaching from behind and running the palm of his hand along the back of Burns'. As he stepped closer to the fire, he saw Burns' head lolled to the side, fast asleep. "Let's get you to bed." He put out the fire, then scooped him up in his arms and carried him off to their room and laid him on their bed. He still slept soundly, and Smithers scooted surreptitiously beneath the covers, then tucked them around Burns' shoulders. "Good night, sweet prince." He, too, quickly succumbed to the seduction of sleep.

The next morning, at breakfast, Burns said, "I want to go to the dinner theater with you."

"Great! I would love that. When do they have shows playing this week?"

"I want to go to the showing this Saturday at seven."

"Ooh, I'm sorry, dear. I can't make it."

"What do you mean, 'can't make it'? You said I could have anything I wanted, and this is what I want. You don't work Saturday nights, so what is the problem?"

"I...picked up another overtime shift at the plant."

"You said you were going to cut down your hours."

"I know, I know."

"Then why the devil did you agree to work more overtime?"

"I'm sorry, but the moving expenses–"

"What's a paltry two thousand dollars when we have millions coming in?"

"I know, but that won't be for months, and I want to buy you nice things now."

"I told you, a few hundred dollars is nothing. I'd rather have you."

Smithers' heart galloped. "I'm glad you do, but I already bought a surprise for you, and I know you'll love it, but it was really expensive, and since we had the unexpected expense of the movers, I need this overtime pay just to make ends meet. I promise, we'll do the dinner theater next week. Let's do something else this week, though."

"Why don't we go to that wine tasting in the park on Friday? It's from four to nine."

"I have a campaign rally in Capital City on Friday, remember?"

"Let's rent out one of those swan boats on Lake Springfield this Thursday during your lunch break."

"That sounds...oh, but I have to attend a luncheon with Quimby Thursday."

"Wednesday. You only work eight hours that day."

"Yes, but I have to appear in court in the morning before my evening shift. You can join me, if you'd like."

"Oh, _that's_ romantic."

"I thought you said you didn't care for romance."

"I'm not asking for a basket of roses and a sentimental folderol as tokens of your affection, but for God's sake man, at least _try_. I'm not hard to please." Smithers snorted. "What do you find so amusing?"

"You're kidding me. You're the hardest man to please! I've had to work harder to please you than I've ever had to work to please anybody. You're the most high-maintenance man I've ever met."

"I only ask one thing of you: your undivided attention and your everlasting devotion. What is so difficult about that?"

"Well, that was easy when I worked for you. But Monty, until you get back on your feet, I need to work to support you, and that means my time will be divided."

"But...what will I do?"

That helpless look broke Smithers up. "Why don't you go to Marge's art class today? I'll look forward to seeing what you drew when I get home."

"Won't there be some sort of enrollment fee?"

"Here," said Smithers, handing him a couple of hundred dollar bills. "That ought to cover it. Buy yourself some nice paints and brushes." He bit a slice of toast and set it onto the plate before leaving. "I should be home by ten tonight."


	3. Chapter 3

**Secondhand Burns**

 **Chapter Three**

Burns opened the door cautiously. He had become something of a hermit, and as much as he longed to end his idleness, he was fretful at the thought of facing the community he once towered over, now enfeebled and impotent.

He had only opened it a crack when Marge noticed him there and cheerfully said, "Oh, hello, Mr. Burns. What brings you here?"

"I'd like to enroll in your class," he said, slapping the money Smithers had given him on the front desk.

"Wonderful! You can pay later at the registration desk," she said, sliding the money back to Mr. Burns. "For now, here's your starter art supply kit and some paper," she said, handing him the materials. "Take a seat anywhere."

He approached a chair in front row center where Helen Lovejoy sat. "Out of the chair! I'm sitting here," he said, shooing her away. Helen left the seat in a huff.

"Mr. Burns, next time just ask," said Marge. "I'm sure she'd be happy to give you her seat if you just said, 'Please.'"

"Oh, spare me the civics lesson and teach me to paint already."

"Mm..." she said, then began talking about giving the drawings dimension. Burns's eyes scanned the room. His fellow classmates – Luann Van Houten, Bernice Hibbert, Manjula Nahasapeemapetilon, Sarah Wiggum, and Helen Lovejoy – were all housewives. His cheeks reddened. _I've gone from energy mogul to suburban housewife, all for a man I rarely see anymore._ "Mr. Burns?"

"What?"

"I asked you what you dream about."

"Why do you need to know that? This is a painting class, not a head shrink's couch!"

"Well, today's activity is to paint what you'd most like to have, so we're sharing what we want most."

"Oh, all right. I'll play along. I want millions of dollars. Next."

"Okay, so how would you turn that into a painting? You could draw stacks of money, or the things you'd like to buy with that money, or–"

"I get the picture. Next."

"Sarah, how about you?"

"A big cake with Ralphie's picture on it."

"That sounds _sweet_ ," said Marge, chuckling at her pun.

Burns ignored them as she talked with the other students. He proceeded to draw open briefcases with money spilling out and himself dancing in the middle of them. He rapidly painted over the line drawing and finished faster than anyone else – and it showed. "There. I've finished." Marge, who had just finished talking with the last student, walked over. "Well...?" asked Burns, wringing his hands as he failed to conceal his desire for approval.

"It's...a good start. But I really don't see your passion here. That's what really makes art great, as much as technical skill does."

"My passion, eh?"

* * *

" _Kiss me, Monty." Smithers pulled him close by the tie of his robe. "I need you." He kissed Smithers, who reached his hands under the robe and gripped him by the sides of his waist. "I know how to make you happy." He kissed Burns' ear, then whispered, "So I'm going to make you happy."_

When Smithers got home that night, closer to eleven than ten, he carried a rose betwixt his teeth as he peered into the sitting room by the fire, but no fire was lit, the room long abandoned. He next went to their bedroom and found his husband curled up in the blankets, long asleep. He didn't want to wake him up, but he sorely missed spending time with him. He got under the covers and wrapped his arms around Burns' shoulders, the rose still in his mouth. When Burns still didn't awaken, Smithers brushed the petals of the rose against his cheek. "Honey, I'm home."

One of Burns' eyes creaked open, then he rose with a start. "Ah! What is this thing doing in my face?"

"It's a rose," he said, the words unclear with his teeth still clenched over the stem.

"Well, you awoke me from a very pleasant dream."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart." He looked apologetically into Burns' eyes.

"That's not the way you apologize."

He dropped the rose onto Burns' chest, then kissed his cheek. "Is that better?"

"No."

"What should I do to apologize, then?"

He clasped his hands behind his head. "Make my dream become reality."

"Which dream is – oh!" He kissed Burns' neck. "My pleasure, sir! I mean, dear."

The next morning, Smithers bathed and dressed the two of them, then meticulously combed their hair, readying them for court. Burns sighed, head in hand as he said, "How pathetic that our first date in a month is a court appearance."

"That'll all change soon. I promise." He closed his fingers around Burns' thin, frail wrist.

"I thought that once you were working for a man other than me, you'd quit being such a workaholic."

"But I am working for you. I'm only working so much to pay for your gift."

"I've already paid through the nose for you; no gift could surpass you in value."

"Oh, I can't keep it a secret anymore," he said, grabbing Burns by his upper arms and drawing him near. "Monty, we're going to Paris!"

"What?"

"This Christmas. I've got us tickets to _La Bayadère_ at the Paris Opera Ballet, _Il Trovatore_ at Le Palais Garnier, and reservations for all the finest restaurants, ones where you can easily spend a thousand dollars on a dinner for two. I've booked us a room in the most luxurious hotel in Paris, Le Château de Tyran. I'm sparing no expense. And when we're there, you'll have me all to yourself."

"How long will we stay there?"

"We'll have a week and a half."

"A week? That's all? You're working yourself down to the bone for months on end for a mere week in Paris?"

"Monty, it's really, _really_ expensive. This trip is costing me almost a quarter of my yearly income, but it's worth it to give you the vacation you deserve."

"What about the husband I deserve?"

Smithers gasped. It shocked him to realize that Burns was having a harder time dealing with their separation than he was. After thinking about it a bit, it made sense, though – Smithers had spent decades dealing with prolonged periods of emotional if not physical distance, but Burns had always wielded complete command of Smithers' physical and mental attention. "I didn't realize...just hang in there for a couple more months. I promise I'll make more time for you." He hugged him, burying his nose and mouth in his shoulder so his voice was muffled as he said, "You know I desperately want to."

"Has anyone told you you're too disciplined?"

"Everyone." He released Burns from the hug. "Now, let's get ready. We don't want to be late for our court appointment."

"It's not for another two hours."

"Oh my God – it's later than I thought!"

At the courthouse, Smithers, dressed in a sharp ash grey suit with a pale lavender shirt and diagonally striped tie of various shades of blue, took a seat. Beside him sat Burns, attired in a jet black suit with a white shirt and a lavender paisley tie. As the blue-haired lawyer gave their opening statements, Burns stroked the back of Smithers' hand with an index finger.

After the opening statements of the defendant concluded, Kent Brockman was called to the stand.

"Is it true," said the lawyer, "that you called Mr. Smithers a 'twisted pervert' on a televised broadcast? I remind you, you are under oath."

Brockman sighed. "Yes. But come on, he's a public figure; that's protected speech!"

"Save your arguments for when it's your turn to cross-examine. And did you say, on-air, that he – and I quote – 'sexually violated his decrepit boss'?"

"Yes, but–"

"I said, save your arguments."

"Please, this is ridiculous. If he should be suing anyone, it's Mr. Burns. He's the one who made the defamatory statements in the first place before I repeated them."

"So you admit they were defamatory."

"But he's the one who –"

"Mr. Burns was already tried for perjury and was found not guilty by reason of being incredibly old and out-of-touch with current social mores and too rich to be guilty. We are not trying him again; that would constitute a violation of the constitutional prohibition against double jeopardy."

"Oh, screw this; what do I care? I'm rich and I'm already fired, aren't I?" he said, turning to the Channel 6 owner.

"Yes," he replied.

"Fine; just take the ten million!" He slammed a briefcase of money on the stand and left. The Channel 6 lawyers convened, whispering rapidly. Then, one of them came forth and said, "We forfeit our case; here's five million dollars," and left.

Everyone else stared in perplexion, then Judge Snyder banged the gavel and said, "Court dismissed."

Burns turned to Smithers and said, "I think we just set the record for the speediest trial in American history."

Smithers kissed and hugged him, then said, "We're millionaires again, Monty! You know what that means?"

"I'll have to bone up on my tax-dodging?"

"It means no more overtime. I'm taking today off, and we'll do anything you want to do. Absolutely anything."

"Let's go shopping."

* * *

They had gussied up the austerely decorated halls and rooms of the mansion with the most ornate furniture and other accoutrements they'd purchased from the mall and antique shops, but it still looked spartan compared to the old arrangement. Burns sat in the old antique chair he'd kept from before. Smithers sat beside him in their new Victorian-era antique chair, a white-upholstered piece fashioned from dark stained cherry wood.

Stretching his arms out in a yawn and then reaching one behind Burns' shoulders, he said, "We found some great stuff today, didn't we? We'll have this place restored to its ostentatious grandeur in no time." He massaged the back of Burns' neck and said, "Why don't we go to the dinner theater tonight?"

"Just swell." Burns sighed in sullen contemplation.

"What's wrong? I thought you wanted to go to the dinner theater."

"I do. But Waylon," he said, touching the hand on his neck, "this is all just an illusion you're propping up to make me feel like I'm a billionaire again. But I'm not. All I see around me is a reminder of how much I am a mere shadow of my former self."

"This is just a – a temporary setback. You'll get your fortune back."

"How shall I do that, exactly? Become the next Picasso? Flim-flam!" He unconsciously dug his nails into the skin of Smithers' wrist. "No, I won't have my fortune back until I am leading my own business. But without my plant..." He retracted his fingernails, then curled his fingers around Smithers' wrist and gave a gentle squeeze. Smithers stroked the back of his neck. "Waylon, I want my life back." They sat together, looking into each other's eyes.

As Burns began to cry, Smithers got up and knelt by his side, taking Burns' hands in his. "You'll have your plant back. You'll have all your millions. You'll have everything you've ever wanted. I swear to you, no matter what I have to do, you'll have it all."

"Confound it! I don't want you earning my fortune back for me. I don't want to be your trophy husband."

"I'm the reason you lost it, so I should be the reason you get it back." He kissed Burns' hands. "I will get it back." He looked up into his eyes determinedly. "And I think I know how."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Burns adjusted Smithers' bow tie as they stood by a gazebo in Springfield Park. "Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

"Absolutely."

"Do you really think it will work?"

"There's only one way to find out," he said, kissing Burns on the cheek and stepping up to the podium. Staring into TV cameras and a throng of people chattering amongst themselves, Smithers positioned himself before the microphone and cleared his throat. "Thank you, all, for coming to hear me speak. I really appreciate this groundswell of support for me. Your spirit has helped restore my faith in this great state of ours.

"But I have a very important announcement to make. For you see, I am following one of the oldest dictates of governance, namely, to put one's own house in order before taking on the task of directing the state. Well, my house is Springfield, and it is far from 'in order.' That is why I am dropping out of the gubernatorial race and running for mayor of Springfield." Gasps of dismay rippled through the crowd. "And in my stead, Rainier Wolfcastle will be running for governor."

He stood aside and clapped as Wolfcastle took to the podium. Someone shouted, "McBain rocks!"

"Yes," said Wolfcastle, "I am the one who does the rocking."

Smithers stepped off the stage and rejoined Burns. "Now, time to take on Quimby."

* * *

"Thank you for meeting me before class, Mrs. Simpson." Mr. Burns dragged a black leather portfolio behind him as he took a seat in the empty art classroom.

"It's no trouble at all." She sat upon a tall stool and clasped her hands over her knees as she leaned forward. "You wanted to show me a painting?"

"Ah, yes," he said, opening his portfolio and grunting a bit as he pulled a 16 by 20 inch oil painting on canvas. "I wanted you to see it before the others arrive."

"Mr. Burns, this is phenomenal!" said Marge, taking the painting into her hands.

"You really think so?" he said, voice deliberate and subdued, concealing any hint of desperation for approval.

"Of course I do. See, this is what I meant about finding your passion." It depicted Smithers on his knees, a rose in his mouth as he gazed warmly and pleadingly straight upward and out of the canvas. The gloss in his eyes and glasses each entranced with the clear reflection of brazen desire and unflinching loyalty.

"Mr. Burns, there's an art contest next month, and I want you to enter this painting in."

"This?"

"Yes. It's the best work I've seen you do."

"Mrs. Simpson, I appreciate your laudation, but this piece is... well, personal."

"You didn't have a problem with people seeing the nude portrait I painted of you. If you're okay with Springfield seeing your ding-a-ling, why would you have a problem with them seeing Waylon's face?"

"Because that look is for me and me alone." He took the painting back in his hands and turned it around to look at it. "I don't want him to look at anyone else like that."

"You know Waylon wouldn't look at anyone else the way he looks at you. He cherishes you more than anyone in the world."

"I realize that, but still... I don't want anyone else to see him like that."

"The grand prize is a thousand dollars."

"Where do I sign up?"

* * *

"How does my costume look?" said Burns, turning around as Smithers smoothed his tie and adjusted his brown fedora and phony IRS badge.

"Adorable." He cradled Burns' head in his arms and held him against his neck until, feeling the scowl forming on his face, jumped back and said, "I mean, bone-chilling," as he withdrew. "I mean –"

"I _know_ what you mean."

"You send a tingle down my spine," he said, taking his hand and squeezing it briefly before letting it slip away. "Just wait until you see my costume." He left for a changing room and came back out a short while later. "Well, what do you think?"

"What the devil are you supposed to be?" He scanned Smithers head to toe, scrutinizing the colorful cardboard boxes and plastic utensils splattered with red paint that were affixed to his clothing.

"A cereal killer. See, I have the boxes of cereal with plastic knives stuck in them."

"Oh, that's original."

"Come on, let's go." They left in Burns' classic limousine, Burns sitting in the back as usual as Smithers drove them to Dewey Largo's house. He guided Mr. Burns along the walkway, a hand on his shoulder. A few feet from the door, a decorative ghost sprang up, an audio recording saying "Boo!" and startling Mr. Burns. Smithers lowered his hand and squeezed his arm below the shoulder. "It's all right, Monty."

Burns scoffed. "As if such childish pranks would rattle my nerves." He chuckled nervously.

Smithers kissed the bridge of his nose just between his eyes. "Of course they wouldn't." He rang the doorbell, which triggered a spooky voice recording of "Nobody's home... Go away!"

Dewey Largo opened the door, wearing wig and assorted garb reminiscent of Beethoven. "Happy Halloween! Waylon, nice to see you! Monty, come right in."

Burns looked to Smithers and whispered, "He has the gall to address me as Monty?"

Smithers took his hands and faced him directly. "These are my friends; we go way back. Try to be friendly to them, for me?"

Burns sighed. "Very well."

"Thanks," he said in a whisper, then gestured toward Dewey. "Monty, this is Dewey; Dewey, you know my husband Monty..." He relished how those words, words he had never thought he'd ever have the occasion to utter, had become so normal.

"A pleasure to meet you," said Burns, shaking his hand. "I've heard a lot about your collaborations on the elementary school musical productions."

Dewey raised an index finger. "Don't get me started."

They moved inside to greet the other guests. "Stuart," said Smithers. "Good to see you."

"And what are you supposed to be?" said Burns, eyeing Stuart's robotic costume. "Some sort of male Maschinenmensch?"

"Iron Man, actually."

"It's a popular comic book and film franchise," said Smithers, anticipating Burns' lack of recognition.

They heard Grady's voice as he approached from the kitchen. "Do I make you randy, baby?" said Grady, dressed as Austin Powers.

"Great Halloween costumes," said Smithers, turning around to see Julio at his side, dressed as Dr. Evil.

"And you are...?" said Burns to Julio.

"I am Dr. Evil."

"I believe I roomed with a Dr. Evil at Yale... oh, wait, that was Prescott Bush."

Grady turned to Julio and said, "Why don't you fix them some drinks, Julio?"

Burns' pupils narrowed. Julio – that name sounded so familiar. Was he thinking of the time he'd met with the Costa Rican president in the twenties? No, he was thinking of something much more recent. Something much more personal. Smithers asked him what he wanted to drink, and although he replied, he was not cognizant of his own response.

John walked in from the kitchen, dressed as the robot from Lost in Space as Julio handed them their drinks. "Who's ready for Spooky Laser Twister?" Grizzly Shaun, dressed as a polar bear, followed behind with a handful of candy corn.

At hearing John's voice, Burns suddenly recollected why the name Julio was so familiar to him. He turned sharply to Julio and said, "You tried to steal Waylon from me." The partygoers gasped.

"B-but I didn't, I swear it."

"Don't try pulling one over on me. He told me all about your escapades in Cuba."

"Oh, that," he said, waving it off with a sigh of relief. "Relax, Monty. That was before you two were together."

Grady said, "The gay community is pretty small here in Springfield."

Julio said, "Yeah, we've all slept with at least someone in our social circle. It doesn't mean we're gonna get hitched."

"Wait," said Burns to Smithers. "Have you slept with _all_ these men?"

"No, no! I think..." said Smithers. "Oh! I haven't been with him." He pointed to Grizzly Shaun. "Or Grady."

Seeing how nervous Burns was, Stuart turned to him and said, "Don't worry, Mr. Burns – he's so loyal and so madly in love with you, he'd never cheat on you." Smithers and John glanced at each other briefly before guiltily averting their eyes.

"Tell me about it," said Julio. "The whole time we were in Cuba, Waylon couldn't think of anything but him."

"One time," said Dewey, "when we went to see Mahler's Symphony No. 2, he spent the whole intermission talking about the first time he'd seen it performed with Mr. Burns."

John said, "A couple of years ago, when we'd been dating for awhile and I was trying to talk him into moving in with me, he'd change the subject whenever I brought it up and began to work longer hours. Sometimes, he'd come over, we'd fool around, and then right after, he'd leave to fix you a midnight cup of tea or something."

"He did that with you, too?" said Dewey.

"And he took every chance he got to go on and on about how lucky he was to work for such a remarkable man as Mr. Burns. And then wondered why I started making excuses and avoiding him."

"You see?" said Julio. "You have nothing to worry about, Monty. He has a passion for you that none of us could inspire or keep aflame."

"Of course," said Mr. Burns, chuckling sheepishly. "Waylon wouldn't leave me."

"Of course I wouldn't leave you," said Smithers, kissing his forehead.

Stuart said, "You should've seen how he was showing off his ring when you got engaged. I've never seen him so happy."

Grady said, "Sometimes, he would just start crying, then hug you and say, 'I'm marrying Mr. Burns!'"

"Okay, guys," said Smithers. "I think he gets the point."

"So," said John. "Who's up for Spooky Laser Twister? It's the same as regular Twister, except you play in the dark with a laser disco ball."

Julio, Grady, John, and Dewey volunteered, and the others watched as the contenders sipped drinks between turns, Waylon and Monty reclining on adjacent navy blue chaises. Julio won the first round.

"Waylon, why don't you play?" said John.

"No, thanks. I'd rather sit here sipping my Zombie with Monty."

Burns said, "Sit and sip if you must, but _I_ want to try it."

"Are you sure that's a good idea, sir? Remember that time you tried yoga?"

"Oh, yes. It was hours before they could straighten out my spine." He sipped his Bloody Mary, and the others commenced a new game while Smithers engaged him in small talk. After a few minutes, Burns needed to use the bathroom, and the newly disqualified Grady sat in a gray lounge chair beside Waylon.

"Hi, Waylon."

"Hi, Grady. Having fun out there?"

"Yeah. Are you having fun out here?"

"Of course I am. Having a drink, talking to my husband, watching my tipsy friends try to balance on a Twister mat – I'm having a blast."

"But you're just watching us. And you can talk to your husband any day of the week. You don't feel like he's... slowing you down?"

"Hey, wait a minute... Homer warned me about you."

Grady's lips tightened. "He did, did he?"

"Yes, he did. And I'll tell you that nothing is better than knowing Monty wants me, and I cherish our every moment together. It has nothing to do with his money. I've loved him just as much when he's been broke."

"Whoa, hey, I wasn't trying to come on to you. I'm back together with Julio, now."

"Yeah, and you were with Julio when you kissed –"

"I know, but it's not like that this time. I'm just checking on you as a friend. If you say you're really happy with him, that's what counts."

"I am."

After awhile, Burns rejoined Smithers, who put his arm around Burns' shoulders as he lay back beside him. They each sipped their drinks as Julio's elbow hit the mat, leaving Stuart as the winner.

Grady stood from his seat and said to the others, "Guys, next let's do something Mr. Burns can participate in, okay?"

They nodded in agreement, and Julio said, "Let's do the toilet paper mummy contest. We'll need one person to be judge and two people to be mummies."

"I'll judge," said John.

"I'll be a mummy," said Dewey.

"Then we need only one more mummy," said Julio. "How about you, Monty?"

Burns turned to Smithers, who smiled in encouragement. "As long as you don't put me into a casket, I'm in!" He tented his fingers. "So, what's the prize for the winning walking undead?"

John said, "I'll give each member of the winning group a foam rubber scarab from the 1999 version of _The Mummy_."

"Hm," said Stuart. "We have an odd number of participants. How should we divvy up the groups?"

Grizzly Shaun said, "I'll serve drinks to you while you're busy wrapping one of our mummies up."

Waylon and Stuart worked on Monty while Grady and Julio worked on Dewey. When time was up, they presented their mummies.

"I don't think there's any doubt about who the winner is, here," said John. "Congratulations, Waylon, Stuart, and Monty! You're the winners."

They watched the movie _Halloween_ , during which Burns fell asleep. Smithers stroked the hair behind his ear, and Burns smiled slightly in his sleep. At the conclusion of the film, Smithers kissed the bridge of his nose, causing his eyes to flutter open. "You want to go to bed, sweetheart?"

Burns yawned and looked around the room as Dewey flipped the light switch on. "Nonsense. We've only just arrived..." He shut his eyes again and slumped against Smithers, falling back to sleep.

"I'll call a cab," said Smithers, dialing from his cellphone. When the taxicab came, Smithers said goodbye to his friends and carried Burns out in his arms. Once they pulled in front of the manor, Smithers brought him to their bedroom and slipped him between the covers of their bed. Smithers changed out of his clothes and donned a dressing gown, then got into the bed and helped Burns out of his clothes and into his own dressing gown. Noting that Burns had awakened during the clothes change, he took his hand and said, "Just think, Monty – in two months' time, we'll be in Paris."

"I can hardly wait," said Burns, words distant and dreamy.

Smithers kissed his forehead. "Sleep well, mon chéri."

* * *

 **AUTHOR NOTE:** I apologize for the long delay and subpar writing this chapter. I've been quite ill for the last couple months, and I've found the act of writing very difficult, even though I have the plot all laid out.


	5. Chapter 5

**Secondhand Burns**

 **Chapter Five**

Burns stood in the Springfield Community Center beneath the banner reading "The Greatest Treasure" where the judging for their community art contest was about to commence. On the wall were a half dozen paintings that had made it to the final round, including a waterfall, a child on a swing, a mother dog licking her pups, a close-up of a couple of seeds in someone's hands, a man giving a dollar to a homeless man sitting on the floor of a subway car, and Burns' painting of Smithers looking adoringly and longingly up at him, rose perched between teeth.

Mr. Lombardo cleared his throat and spoke. "Welcome, everyone, to the annual Springfield community art competition. This year's theme: the greatest treasure. The winning artist will get a $1000 dollar cash prize."

Burns tented his fingers anxiously, his eyes darting toward the entrance.

"Will it be: _Water Falls Unto Springfield, Swing Low Sweet Child, The Pup Also Rises, Tomorrow Belongs to Seeds, More than Dimes to Spare,_ or _Apple of My Eye_?And the winner is..." A woman handed him an envelope containing the judge's votes. " _More Than Dimes to Spare!_ " A young man with long brown hair approached the podium to accept his award. Burns sighed in dejection. _At least Waylon wasn't here to see me lose. Although, he would know just the thing to say to console me about not winning that money._ Lombardo spoke up again. "While the judges agreed that the winning painting was the best in technical skill and overall composition, they wanted to give recognition to a painting that was particularly evocative. Honorable mention goes to... _Apple of My Eye_."

Burns' eyes brightened, and he tented his fingers as he approached the podium. "What's the prize for honorable mention?"

"Esteem in the eyes of Springfield's art community," said Lombardo.

"Oh," said Burns, suppressing a pout.

"...And two tickets to a production of Chekhov's _The Cherry Orchard_ at Springfield Dinner Theater, including the cost of two meals."

"Ooh, excellent. I've been wanting to see that one." He took the tickets in hand and turned around to see Smithers running up to him.

"I'm sorry I'm late, but my photo op at the Retirement Castle ran long." He kissed Burns' cheek. "I'm eager to see the painting you entered. You've been so secretive about it. You don't act so cagey even around NRC inspectors."

"It's on the wall there," he said, gesturing to it. Smithers' eyes scanned the paintings until he recognized himself, and his lower lip fell a bit as he gasped at his own endearing visage. As he studied the image, Burns said, "I didn't win the cash prize, but –"

Smithers grasped his wrist to turn him so they were facing and hugged him. "I love it." He ran his hands up and down Burns' shoulders. "We can hang it in our room, next to the painting of you I kept in my old bedroom."

"Tonight, let's go see _The Cherry Orchard_ at the dinner theater. My treat," he said, holding them up and splaying them between his fingers.

Smithers moved his hands from Burns' shoulders to his hands, then said, "I can't wait."

That evening, during the play, whenever Smithers stole a glance at his beloved, he noticed a disquieting tension not befitting someone watching a comedic play. He soothingly stroked the back of his hand, wanting desperately to ask him what was wrong, but he knew his husband would heartily resist revealing any emotional vulnerability in public.

At the end of the play, once they were back in the familiar comfort of the front seats of their limousine, Smithers said, "I couldn't help but notice you didn't even crack a smile at the throwing-the-baby scene. Is anything wrong?"

Burns looked downward, saying, "It just hit a little close to home. I'm not some generous fool frittering money away like Lyubov Ranevskaya. But I know the pain of having to sell my estate."

Smithers hugged him, running one hand up and down along his spine. "Oh, Monty, no wonder you're upset. But we have your estate back now."

"I know. But it's not the same, barren of the memorabilia of the proud legacy of my family."

"I'll let you in on something I was going to surprise you with. I've been tracking down and buying back the things you sold. I already have most of your original dining room set and the portraits of your family. I've kept them in the dungeon."

Burns squeezed him a little harder. "I can always count on you, can't I?"

"As long as I'm breathing."

Burns pushed his face further into Smithers' chest. "Keep doing that."

They held each other for another minute before Smithers kissed the top of his head and gently parted from him so they could go home.

* * *

On a television screen in Quimby's mayoral office, as the camera panned across Quimby's secret swimming pool, Smithers narrated: "Quimby funnels your money into his private swimming pools. The only place I'll funnel money into is your futures." Clips played of road construction workers, smiling children, and a clean park, then the screen cut to show Smithers standing in the park with a trash-collecting stick with a candy wrapper impaled upon it. "Hi, I'm Waylon Smithers. Vote for me for mayor and I'll help you build a better Springfield."

Quimby shut the television off in his office and turned to his campaign managers. "That Smithers is killing my chances for re-election. How do we put a stop to this?"

An advisor said, "Well, sir, the problem is that he's running on a platform of dialogue, compromise, and good will."

"That moron. Doesn't he know anything about being a politician?"

"The people of Springfield have been growing increasingly frustrated with the political establishment. And unfortunately, you are entrenched in establishment politics."

"We have got to bring him down to our level, or those stupid hicks might actually vote for him." He smirked. "If he wants dialogue and compromise, then by God, he will have it."

"What do you have in mind?"

Quimby dialed his phone. "Is this, er, Mr. Smithers? … Ah, good. I would like to invite you and Mr. Burns out to dinner with me and the, er, wife. We can discuss how to put aside our petty differences to best serve the interests of Springfield's people. … Let's dine at The Gilded Truffle. How does Saturday night sound? … Yes, seven would be fine. We will see you then." He hung up the phone. "We'll go back to their place after dinner and get it bugged. Get some dirt we can use to really stick it to him."

* * *

Smithers hung up his cell phone, then walked up to behind the tall red chair by the fireplace where Burns sat cradling a snifter of brandy in his hand. He put a hand on Burns' shoulder and trailed his fingers back and forth over the soft green fleece of his robe. Burns rolled his eyes and said, "You set up a dinner appointment for us, didn't you?"

"Yes, dear," he said, sheepish.

Accusingly, he said, "Why did you not consult me first?"

Smithers kissed his cheek and said, "You'd never have agreed to come."

"Well, what dissentious rogue are we meeting with this time?"

Smithers pulled an adjacent chair closer and sat beside him. "We're having dinner with Quimby at The Gilded Truffle this Saturday."

"He's up to something."

"You just don't want to go."

"He's looking for a way to screw you."

"Of course he's looking to screw me. But if I turned him down after making such a big deal about dialogue and compromise, it would make me insincere."

"Which would differentiate you from – which politician, then?"

"The whole point of my campaign is that I'm _not_ like other politicians."

"He's plotting something. I guarantee it. You've seen those attack ads he's been running about us polluting Springfield."

"Just wait until you see my latest response ad, where I tell people how I persuaded you to start dumping in Shelbyville. They'll hail us as town heroes."

"Now that Quimby has the plant, perhaps we could undermine his campaign exposing our waste mismanagement by showing he's a hypocrite who dumps waste in Springfield."

"Yes, but he hasn't been dumping the waste. He's been following the laws for storage and disposal of nuclear waste. It's about the only thing he does follow the laws about."

"Why, Waylon, I didn't realize you were so charmingly naive," said Burns. "Whether he is guilty of it is immaterial; what matters is that the public deems him guilty."

"But how can we convince the public he's guilty of it if he isn't?"

"I have a plan. Get him here after dinner, and leave the rest to me."

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE: It's hard for me to believe it's been just over a year since I've updated this. I don't expect to update frequently from now on, but I don't expect it to take so long before the next update.**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

At seven o'clock, Smithers, Burns, Quimby, and his wife Martha followed a waiter to their table, doing their best to act casual in front of the journalists circling them. Smithers pulled a chair back for Burns, while Martha stood, arms crossed, as her husband Joe pulled back a chair and sat in it himself. The waiter pulled back a chair for her and handed them each a menu, then poured water in their glasses. Smithers spoke softly into Burns' ear, "What kind of wine would you like?"

"I'm in the mood for a red wine. A Cab, perhaps."

"Good choice," he said, putting down the wine menu and looking at the dinner menu. "Mm, braised short-ribs sound good to me. I'll have that, and a bottle of the Whistling Cricket Cabernet Sauvignon," he said to the waiter.

"I'll have the braised lamb shanks with roasted Brussels sprouts," said Burns.

"And the, er, wife and I will have the big soufflé and a bottle of your Sandy Valley Merlot."

"Excellent choices," said the waiter, collecting their menus.

"So," said Quimby, "you gentlemen appreciate fine food and wine. I would like to say that I, also, enjoy food and wine. I find it heartening that people from both sides of the political aisles can find common ground in this, er, arena."

Smithers said, "Now, Joe – can I call you Joe?"

"I, er – don't see why not."

"Great. Joe, I don't see why we have to be enemies. After all, we both want to be mayor because we want what's best for the people of Springfield, right?"

"What in God's name are you talking about? I mean, er, of course."

"So, Monty and I were thinking tonight would be the perfect opportunity to discuss policy and find some common ground and workable solutions to make Springfield more prosperous than ever. Why don't you join us for a nightcap after dinner, and we'll discuss over martinis, like gentlemen."

"Just what I was about to suggest."

They ate their dinners, exchanging feigned pleasantries and thinly-veiled barbs until the waiter brought their checks. They paid and drove out to Burns Manor in their limousines, sending off the cameramen at the gate, then went inside where Burns and Smithers cordially welcomed them, offering the Quimbys some chairs to sit in while they went to mix some drinks.

At the bar, once safely out of earshot, Burns said, "You're sure you have the doses right?"

"Yes," said Smithers, holding an eyedropper over a martini glass. He squeezed out a few droplets into each of two glasses. "It'll be enough to knock her out and put him into a suggestible state."

"Excellent." He wrapped his claw-like fingers around Smithers' neck and kissed his cheek.

Smithers dragged his hands down from Burns' shoulders to his hips and pulled him half a step closer. "Is all this devious plotting turning you on?"

"There is a reason I always flirted with you during my most nefarious plots," he said, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "Now, quit undressing me with your eyes; those dithering Democrats won't drug themselves." Smithers shook his head as if to shake loose the fantasy he'd begun to indulge and mixed the martinis. As he poured them into the glasses, Burns said, "He'll be putty in our hands."

"It's showtime."

They re-entered the parlor, Smithers carrying the tray and handing the Quimbys their drinks as Burns took a seat across from them.

Quimby sipped from his martini and said, "Now, that is a fine martini," with a savoring gulp.

His wife sipped from her glass. "So, Waylon, what gave you the idea to get into politics?"

"Well, Martha, I just wasn't happy with the status quo. I didn't like how the Democrats have been running things, but I couldn't stand to vote for anti-gay Republicans. When I made my speech at that rally against Barlow, I saw how many people supported what I had to say, and I thought, 'Maybe I can make a difference.' I always saw myself as a follower, not a leader, but Monty convinced me I had the potential." He closed his fingers around Burns' hand.

Burns blushed and pointed an index finger at Smithers, lightly grazing his nose. "You give me too much credit. You proved your formidable leadership skills when you were acting CEO at the plant the last time I went to prison."

"How would you know? You weren't there."

"I reviewed surveillance records once I came back. I must confess, when I left you in charge, I assumed you'd hand out health benefits and days off like a Jehovah's Witness hands out religious literature." Smithers gave a nervous smile. "Once I saw how cowed into submission the employees were, I knew I had done well to entrust my beloved plant to you." He placed his hand on Smithers' knee and swirled his fingers around a couple of times.

"How did you do it?" said Quimby, running a tensed hand through his hair and gulping down the rest of his martini. "It seems every time I turn around, the slackers are napping or sneaking out to drink beer."

"All it takes is knowing the proper means of persuasion," Smithers said, stroking the end of his armrest, a brass rendering of a wolverine's head.

"Do you have a, er, persuasion secret?"

"Maybe..."

"If you won't give me the secret, at least give me another of those marvelous martinis."

"Here, I haven't touched mine," said Smithers, handing him the glass and grinning malevolently.

"Please, Joseph," said Martha, "don't make a drunken jack-ass of yourself."

"Can't you get off my back? This is serious political business, not your sewing circle. Why don't you pretend this is your book club and finish your drink?"

"Fine," she said, sighing and slamming back her martini. "It'll be like my birthday party, then." She pulled out her smartphone and began checking her e-mail.

"So, Quimby," said Burns, "you want to talk politics, eh?" Quimby nodded, his head bobbing unsteadily, as he was obviously woozy. "Then answer this: why do you champion the excessive taxation of the wealthy elite, when you are obviously a wealthy man yourself?"

"Oh, that's easy. The taxes are collected to support my many mistresses in opulent luxury... I mean, to support vital social programs."

Burns laughed bemusedly. "Is that so? I'm sure all of Springfield agrees that is a worthy cause, indeed. In a pig's eye! Ah ha ha ha ha!" His laughter turned darkly vengeful.

Smithers placed his hands on Burns' shoulders and rubbed them soothingly. "Easy now, Monty. Ix-nay on the aniacal-may aughter-lay."

"Oh. Yes, I suppose there will be plenty of time for that later."

Martha Quimby's eyelids drooped, her head lolling to the side, and Smithers nudged Burns to direct his attention as she slumped in her seat.

"My wife's never been able to hold her liquor," said Quimby, noticing what they were nudging at.

"Excuse me," said Burns, "I need to... avail myself of the facilities."

Smithers said, "I'll be counting the seconds until you return," and Burns left for the hall. "So, Joe, what would you say is the hardest part of being mayor?"

Dazed, words slightly slurred, he said, "Catering to the whims of the fickle dumb hicks who make up this town."

"I see. Surely you have some positive opinion about Springfield and its citizenry?"

"You would think so. But after however many years mayoring in this jerkwater 'burg, I can honestly say I don't. Except for the broads. Hot, slutty, desperate young women who sleep with me because our depressed economy offers them so few other options. God bless this town."

"Uh-huh. Now, tell me more about those tax funds..."

Burns looked at himself in the full-length mirror in his bedroom, now wearing a blonde wig and red dress revealing most of his legs, which he crossed self-consciously. He reached for his phone and texted Smithers.

 _I am not going through with this._

"Just a moment," said Smithers, standing up and putting his phone away. "Monty needs some help in the bathroom. I'll be right back."

"Take all the time you need," said Quimby, patting his jacket over the inner pocket where he'd concealed a listening device.

As soon as Smithers entered their bedroom, Burns let out an exasperated sigh and said, "Let's drop this charade. He will never believe that I'm his mistress."

Smithers looked Burns up and down and said, "Oh, he'll buy it. All you need is a little..." He grabbed a tube of red lipstick from the disguise kit by the nightstand and held it in front of Burns' lips. "Pucker up."

"But Waylon–"

Smithers began applying the lipstick and said, "Don't worry. You look even more stunning than when you won the Miss Teen America pageant. You can pull off Miss Springfield for a drugged lech like Quimby no problem."

"What if he..."

"Yes?"

"What if he gets..." Burns anxiously circled his fingertips over his knuckles, alternating hands as he said, "...handsy?"

"Call him 'fresh' and smack him on the cheek."

"What if he gives up and won't take the bait?"

"This is Mayor Quimby. He's not going to take 'no' for an answer and give up easily." He kissed up Burns' neck and then tugged gently at Burns' earlobe with his teeth, then whispered, "Don't worry. If he gets out of hand, I'll put a stop to it."

"I suppose..."

"Remember: It's to get your plant back."

Burns sighed and looked back to the mirror, hardening his gaze resolutely. "Well, it's worth that."

"That's the spirit," said Smithers, running his hand over Burns' shoulder. "We'll have your plant back in no time."

"I'll meet you out front."

Smithers kissed his cheek. "We'll pull this off."

"As long as we pull it off before he pulls my dress off."

"I'll make sure of it." They left the bedroom, Smithers heading back for the parlor while Burns slipped out a side door and made his way toward the front entrance.

In the parlor, Smithers noted that the mayor's head drooped over his shoulder, his eyes closed. _Shit, I hope we didn't give him too high a dose._ As Smithers approached him, he noticed that Quimby had a small electronic device looking similar to an earbud in his hand and carefully, surreptitiously, took it into his hand and slipped it onto the soil of nearby potted pansies. _I see we had the same idea,_ thought Smithers, patting the interior jacket pocket over his left breast. "Joe," said Smithers in a sharp, loud voice. Quimby startled, and after looking in a few different directions, glanced at the open palm of his hand and the floor nearby, checking to see whether the device was still there. "You did say I could call you 'Joe,' right?"

"Uh, yes, I did. I, er, think."

"Excellent." Smithers looked over to Quimby's wife, still sound asleep, then back again to his rival. The front door bell rang, and Smithers went to answer it. He swung the door open to see Burns in his wig, dress, and "Miss Springfield" sash. They returned to the parlor, and Smithers said, "Look who I invited, to show you there's no hard feelings about your campaign's attack ads."

"But my – er, wife–"

"Don't worry," said Smithers, picking up Mrs. Quimby. "I'll take your wife to a nice, quiet guest room where she can sleep it off." He brought her into a nearby guest room, where he laid her on her side on a bed, then removed her earrings. He replaced them with an identical set with an embedded listening device, then rejoined Quimby and "Miss Springfield" in the parlor.

Quimby had his arm around Burns and pulled him closer. "Now, how about a kiss?"

Burns pushed back against him, then in his best attempt at a delicate, high-pitched, cutesy voice, said, "Sure, but first, why don't you take me to the nuclear plant and show me some radioactive waste?" Smithers tensed, the tip of his tongue clenched between his teeth. _Oh, God. Monty's really rusty on his seduction techniques._ "It really turns me on to see a man hauling something dangerous like that." _Nice save._

"Sure, honey. I may be legally too fit-shaced to drive, but I never let the law get between me and you before. Let me just get my keys–"

"Don't worry about that," said Smithers. "I'll drive."

Quimby stumbled into the back of the limousine, pulling Burns along with him, while Smithers sat in the driver's seat, adjusting the rear-view mirror so he could keep an eye on the backseat. The gates opened, and they left for the power plant.

"So," said Quimby, sliding a silky red strap down Burns' shoulder, "Ready for that kiss, now?"

Burns slapped his face. "Fresh!" He pulled the strap back up his shoulder and crossed his legs tightly.

Smithers stepped on the gas pedal, speeding toward the plant. "Ah, playing hard to get," Quimby said, smoothing his hair back. "That's a game I always win."

"You _will_ win, Joe," said Burns in a breathy whisper. Then, in a sharper and more natural tone under his breath, he said, "But not until we get to the plant."

"You don't have the make the game so hard," said Quimby, twirling the hair of Burns' wig. "And that's not the only thing that's hard."

Sighing, Burns tilted his head, encouraging the teasing touch, and batted his eyes.

"That's better," said Quimby, and Burns and Smithers shuddered simultaneously.

A few minutes later, as they neared the plant parking lot, Smithers saw in the mirror that Quimby was stroking Burns' leg and slipping his hand under the dress. Smithers made a sharp left turn and slammed the brakes, flinging Quimby to the opposite side of the seat. He flung the car door open to get out and open the door to help Burns out.

Burns stumbled on his way out of the car and leaned against Smithers, who had caught him in his arms. Smithers squeezed him, tighter than necessary to keep him upright, and whispered into his ear, "You're doing great."

As Quimby hauled himself out of the limousine, Burns seductively licked the tip of his index finger and brought it down to his knee, then trailed it up his leg in a smooth, flowing motion, pulling up his dress an inch.

"Ooh, baby," Quimby said, drooling.

"Before you can have me, I need to know if you can handle me." Burns flipped the bangs of his wig.

"I can handle anything."

"Excellent. Then you wouldn't mind tossing some barrels of radioactive waste into that river behind the plant to show me what a big, strong, daring man you are?"

"Okay. To be able to toss your salad, I will toss some waste." Quimby led them past security guards and to a row of barrels of waste.

Smithers said, "I'll leave you two alone," and dashed off into the shadows. He surreptitiously followed Burns and Quimby as they made their way to the river, Quimby staggering forward while dragging a barrel of nuclear waste on a dolly. Smithers held his phone in front of him, taking video of Quimby as he opened the canister lid and dumped the contents into the river.

"That's how a real man pollutes. Now, how about letting me into your Oval Office?"

Burns squinted ahead to see Smithers give the signal of two flashing lights to indicate success in recording the event. When Quimby leaned forward with a lecherous grin, Burns tore off his wig and sash as he scrambled to get away from him. Speaking normally, he said, "If you think you can win me over with such a nonsensical line, you're dreaming. I know you're drugged out of your gourd, but I mean, really! First of all, the Oval Office is where the president works, not the mayor, and second of all, you're the mayor trying to seduce Miss Springfield, not the other way around, you dunderpate!"

Quimby, looking quizzical, said, "I don't know what you just said, but anything you say sounds sexy to me," and leaned forward to kiss him.

As soon as Burns could cry out for Smithers, there he was, placing himself between them, Smithers beginning to say, "Oh, no you don't," right when Quimby planted his lips over Smithers' and inadvertently thrust his tongue into his mouth. Smithers pushed back against Quimby's forehead and chest, finally prying him off after a few seconds of struggle. Quimby's eyes went wide when he saw whom he'd kissed and spat repeatedly into the river.

"Thank you," said Burns. "I know you're a keeper when you'll take a kiss from a Democrat for me."

"Don't mention it." He cringed and spat into the dirt in front of him. "I'm sorry, I had no idea he'd be this pushy. I guess his inhibitions were lowered so much he was less inclined to take 'no' for an answer."

"Wait a minute," said Quimby, squinting his eyes at Burns. "You're not Miss Springfield!"

Burns said, "Well, duh!"

Eyes lowered, Smithers said, "He's much too sexy to be Miss Springfield," and put an arm around his waist.

"Well, much as we'd love to stay and chat, we have to be off," said Burns. "How about joining us for a parting drink?" He held out a small bottle labeled as rum and waved it in front of him.

"No. I've done enough drinking for one night."

"Then perhaps you'd like to sample our new cologne. Smithers!"

"I don't see why I'd want to do that," said Quimby as Smithers pulled a spray bottle out from his jacket and sprayed in front of his nose. His eyes became unfocused, and he fell forward, flat on his face.

Burns hummed with self-satisfaction. "He'll be asleep for awhile. Let's go back to the manor, shall we? Perhaps you'll get a chance to sleep with Miss Springfield."

"Why wait until we get home? Your limo is here. I can drive us to a secluded place close by."

"Then let's go." Once he got in the backseat, Burns said, "Well, that was disturbing."

"Yes, but we've got some great footage for the next attack ad. It'll cripple his campaign." Smithers started the car up and headed for the exit. "You seemed to really be getting into it towards the end, before Quimby tried to kiss you."

"I was not."

"Why won't you admit it? Think I can't handle the truth?" Smithers made an exaggerated gesture of flipping his bangs, mimicking Burns' earlier gesture.

"I was motivated to appear enthusiastic to facilitate getting my plant back." He slumped against his seat. "Our plan had better work. I wouldn't want to have done all this for nothing..."

Smithers slowed the limousine to a halt, then unbuckled his seat belt and opened the passenger door to sit beside Burns. "It won't be for nothing," he said, hugging him. "Our plan won't fail. You saw how worn out he is from trying to run the plant. He wants to unload it, and it's only pride that keeps him from selling it back to us. With the election on the line, though, he's sure to give it up."

Burns held him closer and kissed the corner of his lips. "I hope you're right." As Smithers kissed along his neck, Burns said, "I wonder why he wanted to make me a salad."

"What?" said Smithers, chuckling between kisses.

"He said he would toss the waste so he could toss my salad."

"Oh," said Smithers with a blush. "He, uh – didn't mean that literally."

After kissing behind Smithers' ear, he said in an exasperated and exhausted whisper, "Then what the devil did he mean?"

"He meant, uh..." He wiped at a bead of sweat on his forehead. "He meant he wanted to use his tongue to anally stimulate you."

Burns backed his head away, one eye narrowed while the other widened. "You don't have designs on doing that with me, do you?"

"Um, well..."

"It's not going to happen."

"Of course. But if you ever wanted me to..."

"Waylon!" Burns said, flustered rather than angry.

"That's all right. There are other places I'd rather have my tongue. Like here," he said, kissing Burns deeply and activating the curtains over the windows.


End file.
